


This Was Never Gonna Be Pretty Woman

by Anonymous



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, BDSM, F/M, Femsub, Fucking Machines, Mildly Dubious Consent, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:44:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha's first night with a john is nothing like she expects.  It's a lot worse, and a lot better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Natasha can't help but fidget a little as the sleek elevator makes its way up, heading for the penthouse.

She didn't expect this. She isn't given to false modesty—she knows that she has the kind of look that appeals to a lot of guys. A lot of... johns. So she wasn't surprised when Ms. Hill took one look at her and hired her on the spot.

But she assumed her clients would be no-name losers: assholes who couldn't find a willing partner, or out of town businessmen who didn't want to waste their time cruising bars to find a girl to screw in their sad little hotel rooms.

Tony Stark, by all accounts, has more willing partners than he knows what to do with, and he doesn't seem to mind the party circuit, where he can always find new girls who fall all over themselves to spread their legs for him.

So Natasha spends the forty-five second ride up to the penthouse the same way she spent the thirty minute subway ride across town—trying to figure out why Tony Stark bothered to hire a call girl at all, let alone a girl on her first night out.

She doesn't have an answer by the time the elevator opens, and she supposes that it doesn't really matter. She'll do this—and make ten times as much in the four hours she's scheduled for as she could in a week of tending bar—or she won't. Except that she's never really been one to back out of a situation she's gotten herself into, and as she steps out of the elevator into the tastefully, if impersonally, appointed foyer, she can't imagine that that's about to change. Whatever the hell Stark wants, she's pretty sure the money will be worth it.

The elevator doors close behind her, and still there's no movement anywhere she can see. There are a couple of doors, but she can tell by the patterns of wear on the carpet which one goes to the actual suite. The other door has clearly seen more use—it must be the one the servants use to bring in food or cleaning services or whatever else a guy like Stark could want. The suite's door remains pristine. Natasha shifts to face it directly and waits. He must know that she's here, but she's not about to go barging in. If he's changed his mind, that's his prerogative, and she's got no objection to getting paid for standing around waiting.

It's been a couple of minutes at most when the door opens and he steps out, clad in jeans and an undershirt, with rumpled hair and slight bags under his eyes. From his reputation, she expected he'd be drinking, but she doesn't smell any alcohol on his breath, and his gaze is steady enough as he takes her in.

For an instant he just looks impressed, like he expected less and is happy with what he sees. But the expression vanishes after a moment, schooled into something sterner, which gives away very little of his real reaction. "You’d be Natasha."

She nods. It might be stupid to use her real name, but it isn't like he knows the rest of it, and it's easier not to pretend to be someone else. Who she is ought to be good enough for anyone.

"Good." He reaches up with one hand and cups her chin, letting one thumb rub over her cheek. "It is good to be rich," he murmurs.

She doesn't respond, and he blinks, as if he's pulling himself back from his initial reaction.

"Strip. Leave your clothes here and follow me."

She swallows, taken aback in spite of herself, but quickly complies. His eyes stay on her while she pulls off her shirt and unhooks her bra, kicks off her stilettos and shimmies out of her tight leather pants. He's a little less impressed with the sight of her nude body than she might have preferred, but she can see in his face that he likes what he sees, and that's good enough.

She follows him into an excessively modernist living room, and the moment the door closes behind them he turns back. "Kneel," he tells her, and without a second thought, she does.

His smile turns almost feral as she slides gracefully to her knees.  "I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess you've done this kind of thing before."

"I'm not sure what 'this kind of thing' is yet."

"I'm not sure what this kind of thing is yet _Sir_ ," he corrects.

She repeats it back for him—“I’m not sure what this is yet, Sir, but I think I'm getting the idea.  Sir."  Her tone's maybe a little more arch than submissive, but by his expression he doesn't seem to mind.

"Well, that's a relief, because I've never been particularly partial to fucking morons."  He smiles, turns away for a moment, then back to her.  "No, who am I kidding, fucking morons can be pretty fun, actually.  But this is gonna be better."  

He slides his fingers through her hair, and presses close enough that it would take just a little motion by either of them to put her lips on the budge in his jeans.  She's got a feeling that's what's next.

" _This_ , though, is the boring part, so you're going to make it a little more interesting for me."  His free hand drops down to his fly, and he pulls himself out with a casual grace that suggests not the slightest hint of hesitation or embarrassment.

She swallows as she eyes him, licks her lips a little, partly because men tend to like that, but mostly just out of reflex. He isn't wrong that she's done this kind of thing before—she's never minded getting down on her knees for a good looking guy, and she's got to admit that Stark is that.

He pulls her head a little forward, and she parts her lips and takes him in, sucking gently at the head of his cock.

"Nice," he murmurs, pulling her to take him in a little further. "So—boring part." His voice is a little more composed than her ego might prefer, but she doesn't mind letting her tongue play over his cock as she listens to him say whatever it is he thinks he has to say. "You get a safeword. You say it, I stop, you leave, and you don't come back." He pulls her back by her hair, and the little prickle of pain almost feels good. "Tell me what you're using."

She resists the urge to wipe her mouth, and smiles instead. "Antidisestablishmentarianism."

He snorts. "Cute." And then he's dragging her back.  She takes him in gladly enough, a little deeper this time, letting his head bump against the back of her throat. She considers using her hand to cover the rest of him—he's better endowed than she'd have expected a guy with that many classic cars to be—but she's got a feeling that he likes her hands where they are, clasped behind her back.

"Maria's cleared both our tests. We both know that only goes so far, but it's good enough for me—I'm not planning to bother with a condom. I'm not going to give you any scars or break anything, but if you can walk or sit comfortably tomorrow I'm not gonna feel like I got my money's worth. If you’ve got a problem with any of that, you can suck me off and go—you’ll still be well compensated for your time.”

He lets her go, then, and she doesn’t pull off immediately. She’s been with sadists and Doms before, and liked it well enough, but she’s never been with a guy who took her quite so much for granted, who wanted her like this, without beating around the bush or apologizing for it. She can feel his words in her gut, sending hot blood flowing to her cunt. She's wet for him already—this is going to be the easiest money she's ever made.

So when she does pull off, it's only to give him a smirk that she's pretty sure he'll see for the challenge it is. "No problem here, Sir."

A little groan passes his lips, and for a moment she can see in his face how pleased he is. But that disappears fast, and his expression is hard again when his hand tightens in her hair again. "Good. In that case stop screwing around and let me have that pretty throat of yours." That's all the warning she gets before he's thrusting all the way in.

She can't hold back the natural impulse to struggle as he fills her throat, cutting off her air and making her choke and gag around him. But apparently that's the reaction he's looking for, because his hand stays tight in her hair. "Fuck yeah, just like that."

He draws back, but not enough to offer her any relief—just enough that he can thrust back in, once, twice, as she gets a little light headed and starts to really worry about the situation. Whatever he'd said about safewords, she couldn't use one now if she wanted to, and for the first time it occurs to her how easy it would be for a man with Stark's resources to get away with just about anything.

Panic hasn't quite eclipsed her arousal when he pulls back, laughing softly as she sucks in air. He thrusts in again before she's quite caught her breath, but she's ready for it this time and swallows around him as he fucks her throat and curses in vicious pleasure.

He gives her one more chance to breathe, and then he drags her back down until she's pressed hard against his groin. It's somehow even deeper than before, and it doesn't take long until her careful composure starts to dissolve and she's struggling again, her throat working involuntarily around him.

"Fuck that's good. Choke on it," he urges, and his voice is so thick with lust that she can feel an answering heat in her cunt even as her hands come up and press against his thighs, trying to push herself away.

He holds her there a moment more and then groans and yanks her back by the hair. She can feel him start to pulse as he pulls out, but the hand in her hair doesn't loosen. He holds her there while he grips his cock with his other hand and gives himself a few quick strokes.

Thick strands of his come hit her cheek, her lips, her tits, and he takes in the sight with dark, satisfied eyes. She isn't surprised when he rubs his softening dick through some of the spit and come on her chin, and brings it to her mouth to suck.

She does it, feeling a hot surge of lust at the way he watches, like she's filthy and debased and utterly his.

When she's cleaned him off again he releases her and takes a step away. "Get up."

She does, and without thinking brings the back of her hand up to wipe off her mouth. But before she can manage it, his hand shoots out and grabs her wrist hard enough to hurt.

"Don't. You look good like that."

"Yes, Sir." Her voice comes out wrecked, like she's been gargling gravel, and her throat hurts like it too.

He lets out a soft groan of appreciation. "Say that again."

"Yes, Sir," she repeats.

He grabs her chin and slides a thumb through the mess of his come on her face, thrusting it into her mouth so she has to suck it clean too. "It's a good thing you just took the edge off, because I am really going to enjoy taking my time with you."

She shudders a little at the threat in his voice, and apparently he likes that, because he just smirks and starts down a hallway, beckoning her to follow.

They pause at a simple-looking door, much the same as the doors they'd passed, except that this one has a little security panel to one side. His fingers dance over it, entering a code too fast for her to see it, and the door slides open.

She just stares for an instant, until he grabs her by the shoulder and shoves her inside. The door slides closed behind him, and this time he gives her a minute to look.

If she didn't know better, she might take the room for an unusual home gym. It's well lit and spacious, with various equipment dotting the floor. She's never actually done this with someone with the space or money for their own dedicated set-up, so even the things that she knows aren't uncommon are still new to her. Most of it seems to be one form or other of a frame or bench or chair to tie someone to or bend someone over, but her eyes find a sleek mechanical contraption in one corner, and she can't wrench them away. It's got a bench and restraints, and several moving parts that obviously go with the series of breathtakingly obscene attachments lying on a rack nearby.

Behind her, Stark makes a low sound that's almost a laugh. “Damn, that's a nice mental image. But I'm feeling hands-on tonight."

He leads her to a simple square frame, and without any preliminaries pulls one hand and then the other over her head, securing them in cuffs that hang from each corner. The ties have a little give to them at first, but then he uses one foot to shove her legs apart and cuffs them too, leaving her stretched wide and open for him.

He takes a step back and looks her up and down with an appraising eye before moving close again and running two fingers up the inside of her thigh. She can't hold back a little hiss of breath when he reaches the lips of her cunt, and he smiles, all teeth, but makes no comment about how wet he must know she is.

Instead he fastens a black leather strap around her upper thigh, where a garter might go, and connects it to a cord tied to the frame. When he does the same to the other side and tightens them both, she can feel the slight pressure of the straps holding her just a little bit further open.

“One more thing, and we can get started.” He moves behind her and returns with a bit of thick black fabric. She only just has time to recognize what it is before he ties it snugly around her head, and everything goes dark.

With her sight blocked, Natasha immediately finds herself focused on sound. The room they're in is quiet enough that his footsteps ring out clearly as he walks away from her. There's a tiny swish, and she suspects that he's just opened a panel or cupboard. For an instant she's afraid it was a door, and that he's leaving her here to wait until he's ready for more. But his footsteps don't continue, and she hears a little rustling sound, and a tiny clink of metal on metal.

Only when he moves again does she realize that she's been holding her breath. She lets it out and draws in another, and from across the room he chuckles. "Don't think for a second the acoustics in here are an accident. You like what you hear so far?"

Of course. He likes to watch her squirm, and this is just another way to make her do it. "I don't know, Sir."

"Fair enough." More footsteps, and she feels the back of his hand run up her belly and over her breast, where he pauses and lets a thumb toy with her nipple. She draws a breath and holds it, waiting for him to stop, or to continue. A sudden pain shoots through her, starting at the nipple that he's just twisted between thumb and forefinger. She gasps and arches back as much as her restraints allow.

"You like that?"

She hesitates—her first answer is no, but her body has already started to make itself clear on the subject, and its answer is that she wants more. "Yes, Sir," she admits.

"Good." The word sounds dangerous, and an instant later she knows why. He grabs her other nipple and twists it too, a little harder this time, and she goes tense and trembles with the pain. He releases her and runs a thumb over each tender breast, chuckling a little when she winces. "How about now?"

"I don't know." She honestly doesn't. She'd move away from his touch if she could, but that she can't— it's strangely intoxicating, even though the pain is more than she's ever wanted.

"Wrong answer." Even without being able to see him she can tell he's smirking as his hands drop away from her tits. She can hear metal again, and suddenly her nipples feel like they're caught in tiny vises, the pain far sharper than his fingers.

She tries to twist away, tries to do anything to distract from the sensation, but she can't move, can't do anything but feel it. After that first instant, when it seems like more than she can bear, something shifts, and even over the pain she can feel the heat between her legs, aching, wanting with an intensity she can't remember feeling before.

He laughs again, apparently satisfied by her response, and runs a hand back down over her stomach to rest on one hip, before dipping down between her legs and then up. He flicks her clit with one finger and she gasps, suddenly almost on the edge of coming.

"And now? Do I even have to ask?"

"No, Sir. Please, Sir."

"Please what?"

She swallows, and gives the only answer she can. "Please more, Sir."

He makes a low sound of appreciation at that, and then she hears footfalls again, just three as he walks around her.  His thumb runs down her spine, like he's surveying her body and deciding how to reshape it to his liking.

The touch vanishes and he steps back.  She braces herself, but it doesn't really help when the first stroke falls, lighting up the nerves of her back with pain that's echoed by her throbbing nipples.  She lets herself cry out—a man like him surely wants a reaction.  

He hits her again, and again, while she shudders and strains against the cuffs, and feels the heat between her legs grow even as the pain builds until it's almost more than she can take.  She wonders when he'll stop—whether it will be before he thinks he's reached her limits.  Whether he'll stop even then.  She can take this much—doesn't even really mind this much—but more?  She isn't sure.  She suspects he'd like to hear her beg, and she's more than willing to give him that.

"I can't—" she gasps out.  "Please, Sir, I can't take—"  Another blow cuts her off, and she tries again.  "Please stop."

At that he does, for the moment, and suddenly she can feel him pressed against her back, the cloth of his shirt rough against her raw skin.  Without warning fingers encircle her throat, and his thumb rubs up and down over her jugular.  "If I hear another word of bullshit out of you, I'm going to hurt you until you beg for real."

A shudder runs through her at the words, and she knows he can feel it. It's part fear and part desire, and they're tangled together until she isn't sure which is which. She wonders which he thinks it is, and then she wonders which he wants it to be.

"Please," he continues, tone still low and dangerous, "try me."

She moans softly at that, deep in her throat, and he leans his head on her shoulder and groans. "Goddamn."

He reaches around her hip to rub the inside of her thigh with two fingers. She lets out a soft little noise and he groans again and slips the fingers up and inside her.

She shifts her hips, straining against the restraints again, but this time seeking more. She's so slick under his fingers, and her body trembles as he slides out and back again, fucking her agonizingly slowly. "Please," she begs, "more."

"Now that one I believe."  He doesn’t stop, but doesn’t speed up either.  His wrist shifts just enough that the heel of his hand presses against her clit as his fingers move inside her, and her speech dissolves into a wordless litany that makes clear her desire.  “You are fucking exquisite,” he murmurs into her ear, and even over the pleasure in her core, even while naked and trussed up and moaning shamelessly as he fucks her, she flushes a little at the compliment.  Only to feel it as a shock of cold water when he adds, “best piece of ass I’ve had in ages.”  But the insult of it—the obvious pleasure he takes in rubbing in what she is to him—doesn’t lessen her need for more.  Adds to it, maybe, if she’s honest with herself, and right now she can’t quite manage to be anything else.

“Tell you what,” he continues, and she whimpers as he withdraws his fingers, “I want to hurt you again,” the words shiver through her, “but I’m going to give you a choice.  Ask me not to, and I won’t.  I’ll let you down and fuck you over that bench there until I’m satisfied, and then I’ll let you go.”

He gives her a moment to consider that, and she can feel the pulse of her blood in her back, which still throbs in dull pain, and in her cunt, where she feels hot and tight and desperate.  “And if I don’t?” she chokes out.

“If you don’t….”  He pauses and runs a fingernail up over her ass, leaving a trail of pain up to the nape of her neck and back again.  “If you don’t I’m going to hit you again, maybe…” he pretends to consider, “ten more strokes, harder than before.  And then I’m going to throw you on your back on the floor and fuck you.”

She shivers at the thought of her raw skin rubbing against the hardwood while he takes her with all the power evident in his broad shoulders and sculpted arms.

“But,” his hand moves around again, and the pad of his forefinger flicks over her clit, “I’ll let you come first.  Right now.”

“Yes.”  She gasps it out without thinking.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Sir.  Let me come, Sir.  Please.”

“You’re asking me to hurt you again,” he reminds her, his voice rich with satisfaction.

“Yes, Sir.  Please.”  And she means it.  Wants it—not just his finger on her clit, though she sure as hell wants that, but the pain as well, the satisfaction that he takes in it, the idea of him throwing her onto the ground and taking her just as he likes.  It’s more than she can admit, to him or anybody else, but the fact is that there isn’t any of it she doesn’t want right now.

He doesn’t answer, but his fingers dip into her again, pressing at the walls of her cunt, seeking out those places that make her whimper deep in her throat.  The side of his thumb rubs over her clit, almost rough in spite of her slickness, and his nail catches on every stroke, just enough to send a jolt of pleasure through her and make her shudder.  He keeps it up, a slow rhythm, but hard enough that she can feel her orgasm approaching.

His other hand slides over her ass on its way between her legs, where he presses up into her, joining the fingers already there to work her wide open, almost wider than she can bear.

And then the extra finger leaves her, drawing her slickness up into the cleft of her ass until she feels him pressing against her opening. She tenses further, this time in alarm more than in lust, and he huffs a little laugh against her skin. “Nobody’s ever fucked your ass, have they?”

She can feel herself flush.  “No.”

She doesn’t say _Sir_ , but he doesn’t call her on it.  “Goddamn that is tempting.”  He’s still working her clit, and her cunt too, but all she can focus on is his insistent pressure at her ass, not entering her, not yet, but threatening to as his finger traces the tender skin.  She shivers again, and she can almost feel him grin, his lips pressed against the side of her neck.  “It’s probably shallow of me,” he admits, “but there’s something to the ‘where no man has gone before’ bit.  Plus you’re nervous, and that’s cute.”  His voice takes on a breathy quality, like he’s taken with the image, and she can feel a hot pressure at her hip where his cock presses against her skin through the fabric of his jeans.  He’s moving against her, just slightly, like he almost doesn’t know he’s doing it, like the idea of fucking her ass is so hot he can’t keep himself from rutting against her.  “You’d be so goddamned tight, it might hurt no matter how well I prep you.”  The rhythm against her clit quickens.  “You’d squirm, and you’d protest, but you’d love it in the end.  Tell me you want it.”

“No,” she says again, quickly, before she can change her mind.  Because everything, all of it, feels so intense and sharp and right that she’s pretty sure she’s just a couple of breaths from agreeing to anything he wants.

“I don’t believe you,” he singsongs softly into her ear, and his finger pushes slightly into her ass as his thumb presses her clit hard, the nail digging in just enough to send her over the edge.  She loses it, shuddering and bucking as orgasm rips through her, hard and fast, leaving her gasping and wrecked.  “Oh, yeah,” he laughs again.  “You don’t want that at all, do you?”  His hands withdraw, and she gives a soft little whimper at the loss and sags against her restraints.  “Don’t worry.  I won’t do it tonight.  But next time, sweetheart,” the endearment carries more menace than affection, “if I have you again, I’m going to want that virgin ass of yours, and don’t expect me to be gentle about it.”  He punctuates the threat with a sharp motion between her breasts, and she gasps as the dull throb of her nipples turns sharp and fierce again.

“Now,” he muses, and she thinks she can hear the rustle of a flogger as he steps back, “where was I?”

Right.   _Ten more strokes_ he promised, and harder.  The skin of her back tingles, every nerve waiting for the pain to start again.  

It doesn’t.

She listens for any change, anything to tell her what he's waiting for.  But the room is silent.  Which means he hasn't moved, hasn't changed positions or dropped whatever he's got in his hand—whatever he's planning to hit her with.  She can feel his eyes on her, but she can't tell what he's looking for.  Is he just admiring the view, enjoy the way he's got her trussed up and helpless?  Or does he want to see signs of her nerves, evidence that she fears the pain—or desires it?

The idea shivers through her.  Because she does want it.  Her cunt still throbs faintly with the last vestiges of her orgasm, hot and wet and eager for more.  What she wants is for him to keep his promise—his threat—and fuck her on the floor.  But right now, with her arms bound over her head and her legs spread apart, she can admit to herself that she wants the pain too.

She forces herself to wait for it, to wait for him to make up his mind and begin.  But when he still doesn't move, she can't hold herself back.  "Please."

He gives a theatrical groan of appreciation.  "You are made for this.  Seriously, I don’t know what the hell you've been doing with your life that this is the first time you're getting paid for it, but you are quite the whore."  

She only just hears him move before his blow explodes across her skin, digging into her back with what feels like a hundred shards of pain.  It's too much—more than she can take—except that there's nothing she _can_ do but take it, nowhere she can go to escape, and something about that makes it feel almost like pleasure.  

He brings the flogger down again, on her ass this time, and some of the tails find their way to her thigh, leaving tiny welts between her legs.  It's torture, hurts like hell, but the last thing she wants is for it to stop.  When he does it once more, on the other side, her cunt throbs in response, and she can feel a slow trickle of moisture down her thigh, stinging slightly as it travels over a welt.  

She whimpers, needing more, needing everything, and he hits her again, twice in quick succession on her back.  It makes her gasp and arch, and the movement shifts the clamps on her nipples, sharpening the sweet ache until it feels as if every part of her is on fire, hot and needy and so good.

She waits for the next blow, but instead he presses himself behind her, rough against her skin.  She can feel his cock against her ass, and wonders if he's forgotten his promise and is about to take her right there.  But instead he slips his hand between her legs to toy with her.  His fingers glide over her clit, and she's so ready that it's almost enough to set her off again.  She whimpers at his touch, helpless to do anything but beg for more.  

"See, I think I was wrong.  It's not that you're a born whore, because you'd do this for free, wouldn't you?  If I told you right now that I wasn't paying a dime, you'd just keep on begging, wouldn't you?"

Her breath catches, and she tries to tell him no, but her whole body shivers under him.  It takes a long moment before she can recover herself enough to answer.  "No, Sir."

He doesn't stop teasing her, but his little huff of breath suggests that he’s surprised by her answer.  “Yeah, but just out of spite, right?”

“Principle,” she corrects, though the answer’s undermined by the way her voice trembles as his finger dips into her slit.

Stark laughs.  “I can respect that.  Besides, I have no problem paying for this.”  His hand moves up her body, fingers splayed as if to cover more of her skin, to remind her, or himself, that he can touch her however he wants.  His other hand rests on her ass, and his thumb slides over one of her welts a couple of times before he digs in with his thumbnail.  At the same time he gives a quick tug to the clamps on her nipples, leaving her gasping as he releases her and steps away.

She expects him to wait, but he surprises her, because the first blow falls fast and hard and heavy on her back.  The next four follow, stinging her shoulders in rapid succession.  He pauses then, and reaches out to run his hand over her back, the touch almost gentle.  It lights up her nerves anyway, the skin so raw that even that soft touch sends pain racing through her body.  She can almost feel the satisfaction emanating off him.  “Yeah, that’s gonna work.  One more thing.”

He reaches around to toy with the bits of metal at her breasts, and she can feel his breath against her cheek.  “This is gonna hurt,” he warns, his voice rich with lust and anticipation.  

Agony invades her, so sharp that it takes an instant to realize it’s centered at her nipples, where he must have released the clamps.  The pain makes her weak, and she sags against the restraints just as he begins to release them.  The blindfold’s the first to go, but the light only disorients her.  It’s too bright, like the pain, and between the two she can’t keep track of what he’s doing, where he is.  She’s taken by surprise when he gets to the cuffs at her wrists, the ones keeping her upright, and she doesn’t even try to get her legs under her.

He catches her, kind of, and shifts the way she falls so that when she sinks to her knees it’s on bare flooring.  The pain’s still too much for her to care about that, to really notice the surroundings, or anything else, until he lays one hand on her shoulder and pushes.  A decade of mostly-wasted ballet classes lend her the grace to bend backwards until her shoulders are only a few inches above the ground, and then it’s too much and she falls the rest of the way.  The impact hurts like hell anyway, rivaling the throbbing at her chest, and above her he smirks.

Her hands move to cover her breasts, ineffectually pressing them as if it might somehow dull the ache.  He tsks her for it and kneels, one knee between her thighs and the other to her side.  He gathers her wrists in his hands and pulls them over her head, securing both of them in one hand and pressing down hard.  

She struggles at little—the position almost demands it—but all that accomplishes is that her back hurts even more.  He watches her, a carnivore’s smile on his lips, and draws his knee up until it’s hard against her cunt, and this time when she struggles she can feel her clit grind against his thigh.

It's good.  Fuck it's good.  For a couple of minutes there the pain was enough to override her arousal, but now that it's dulled to a hot ache it fuels her desire, and she rubs shamelessly against him.  It's almost everything she wants, and she can feel her orgasm approaching, filling her with a warm anticipation even though she's pretty sure he isn't going to let her have it.  Not yet.

"Not that this isn't a pretty fantastic picture," he remarks, obviously trying to keep his tone casual, but not managing to keep the lust out of his voice, "but I'm definitely going for something a little more focused on my dick.  Specifically—"  He shifts his other knee between her legs, using it to force her to spread herself for him.  The motion makes her think of the heat building there, makes her really feel it.  Her arousal spikes, and suddenly she's as desperate for it as he is—very possibly more.  She lifts her legs to both sides, canting her hips to make the angle good, to let him go deep.  The new position puts more pressure on her shoulders, so it hurts, this offering to him, but that's okay, that's good.  She wants all of it.

And apparently all of it is what he's about to give her.  He leans over her body, letting his forehead rest against her shoulder as he positions his cock just at the lips of her cunt.  He pauses there for an instant, and she whimpers a little at the promise of it and struggles again, this time trying to get him inside of her.  But his hand still holds her wrists, and he's got her pretty well pinned, so it's no more than a tease until he gets himself situated and, with a rough curse, thrusts all the way in.

His first thrust fills her, claims her, and it's so good, so much.  She lets her head fall back, chin up to bare her throat in animal submission.  He doesn’t hesitate, starting a punishing rhythm before she can even think of adjusting to the size of him inside her.

She relaxes her body and takes it, loving the hard friction of the strokes.  She can hear her own voice, high and breathy and wordlessly needy, and she’s pretty sure Stark loves it.  He releases her wrists and brings his hand down to twist at her nipple, and she arches at the pain, gasping and trembling.

“Oh, fuck yeah.”  Stark sags against her for an instant, and then suddenly he’s fucking her harder than ever.  Moments ago, when he had her bound and blindfolded, he was calm and collected and utterly in control, playing her according to his whims.  Now all composure has left him, replaced by feral desire, and she can do nothing but spread herself as he takes what he needs from her body.

It's violent, and gorgeous, and her skin rubs painfully against the floor on every stroke.  His breath comes hot and heavy against her exposed neck, and she's so close she wants to beg for more, even as she knows begging won't accomplish anything.  Every line of his body, every thrust, tells her he's lost now to everything but his own pleasure.

“Fuck you’re tight,” he mutters, his voice rich and rough.  “So.  Goddamned.  Good.”  He leans into her shoulder and she feels the sharp bite of teeth against her skin.  She gasps, and she can feel her cunt throb with anticipation of her release.

"Fuck," he growls against her skin, grabbing her shoulder and using that extra leverage to shove into her harder.  "Goddamn, fuck, _fuck_."  The strokes turn erratic and then she feels him pulse inside her, wet and hot and profoundly obscene.

It's so good, so close to enough, but it isn’t, not quite.  She can't keep in a little gasp of disappointment as he withdraws and gets to his feet.  He chuckles, and smirks down at her.  "Feel free to finish yourself off."

She flushes hot at the words, and hotter when she realizes that no matter how ridiculous it will look, how humiliating it might be, she's going to do it.  Two fingers slide down between her legs, and she can't even resist dipping into the mess in her cunt to smooth the way as she rubs her clit, frantic in spite of herself.  Her nerves stretch taut and it takes only a couple of quick circles to tip herself over.  

Her eyelids flutter shut, and for a moment nothing matters but the pleasure.

The moment ends quickly, as she recalls that she just jerked herself off, and is still lying naked on the floor in front of a stranger—a stranger and a john, and she isn't sure which is worse.  

When she opens her eyes, he's watching her.  He turns away quickly and presses a panel to slide open a sleek little door, almost invisible until it moves.  He steps into the small washroom that it reveals, and emerges with a damp washcloth that he uses to clean off his softening cock.  The task apparently done, he tosses the rag back into the sink and closes the washroom door.  He smirks at her as he does it, and she realizes at once that he's deliberately refusing to offer her a similar curtesy.

Instead he adjusts his jeans, zipping up his fly and fastening the button quickly.  He digs into one pocket and brings out a money clip.  Casually, without counting, he pulls out some bills and lets them fall on the floor. "There'll be a driver in the lobby," he tells her, already turning to leave.  "Just tell him where you want to go."

She blinks at the money. It's obviously a lot, but she can't tell how much, whether it's as much as it's supposed to be. "Ms. Hill said you were paying electronically."

He laughs, and it's definitely at her, though not without a certain warmth. "Oh, sweetheart, that's just the tip."

And then he's gone, leaving her lying on the floor, naked and filthy with his come. She stands slowly, her thighs still trembling a little, and gathers the money.

She hesitates a moment, suddenly nervous about the walk back to the foyer.  She tries the panel for the washroom, but as she expected, it doesn’t open.  She doesn’t see anything that’s obviously a bathroom on her way back to the elevator either, and resigns herself to pulling her clothes back on and scrubbing her face as best she can with the hem of her shirt.  It’s painfully ineffective, but it’s the best she’s going to do.

As the elevator descends she considers ditching the driver and making her own way home.  At least that way she won’t have to make eye contact.  But facing New York’s subways looking like this really isn’t a more appealing option.

The driver’s waiting when the elevator door opens, and by the look on his face he knows who, and what, she is already.  “This way, Miss.”  To his credit, he keeps his tone blandly polite, even if she can see the unpleasant combination of lust and distain in his eyes.

She follows him without a word and settles herself in the backseat.  He asks where to, and she gives him an address a few doors down from her apartment out of habit.  He nods and puts up the privacy barrier, and she sits in silence as they cross the city.  She shifts uncomfortably.  Her back stings where she leans against the seat, and her lacy bra rubs painfully against her nipples every time she moves.  Her cunt aches, and so do her thighs, and she’s undeniably, degradingly filthy.  But in spite of herself, she’s smiling when she gets to her door.

Ms. Hill calls the next day with the news that Mr. Stark's asked for a second appointment already.

"You sound surprised."  Natasha's got ego enough to resent the implication that Stark wouldn’t want a second round. She's always been competitive, and if she's going to be a whore—and apparently she is—she's damn well going to be a good one. As she's pretty sure she proved last night.

"I am surprised. Tony's only asked a girl back once, and she wouldn't do it.  He sends half of them packing before the night's over, or way or another."

"Oh."  Her first instinct is irritation that Hill hadn't warned her, and her second is a warm little surge of pride that she's the one he wants again. Her third impulse, the one that sticks, is hot anticipation for what he'll do when he has her again.

"So?"

She blinks. "So what?"

Hill huffs her irritation into the phone.  "Will you take the appointment?"

Natasha laughs, somehow surprised that her answer wasn't obvious already. "Yeah. I'll take it."


	2. Chapter 2

Natasha fidgets with the hem of her shirt as the elevator makes its ascent to the penthouse. She shouldn't be nervous this time, and she isn’t—not really—but her body thrums with a sharp anticipation that feels much the same.

She has her instructions, to show up at nine, strip in Stark's private foyer, and wait. That's all, but what happened the last time is enough to provide a few dozen ideas of what might be in store for her. She can feel the lips of her cunt, hot and aching already at the thought of it, even as her mind isn’t at all sure she wants to do this again.

Still, the money is really, impossibly good. A good enough reason to be here.

A good enough excuse.

Her chest tightens when the elevator doors open, though as she expected, the foyer is empty. She steps out and glances around. She can't see any cameras anywhere, but a tech billionaire's security system is probably too discrete for her to notice, and there's every reason to assume that she's being watched. Or that she could be, anyway.

She pulls off her shirt, slowly, like a striptease, just in case. Then the skirt, the stilettos and stockings, the bra and panties. Her nipples tighten at the cool air of the room, or maybe just from the anticipation.

She turns to face the door to Stark's personal apartment, and waits.

She didn't bring a watch and wouldn't be wearing it by now anyway, and the foyer gives no indication of the time—not even a window. So there's no way to know how much time passes as she shifts from foot to foot, watching, listening for any sign that Stark's coming to get her.

When a noise comes, it's from behind her, and she starts, turning to face the apartment’s service door with undignified speed. Two men walk in, strangers in deliberately nondescript suits. Some part of her mind registers that they must be bodyguards, but that doesn't tell her what they're doing here, or what she should do about it.

They look her up and down with some mixture of discomfort, amusement, and arousal as she shifts to ineffectually hide herself, one hand over her chest and the other across her hips.

"Mr. Stark has been delayed," one of them tells her. "He asked us to get you… settled in." The other one smirks at that last, and she remembers the way Stark trussed her up the last time. She can only stare, suddenly sure that they're here to bring her back there, and leave her tied and waiting for Stark. It's humiliating, worse by far than when Stark did it himself, and yet she can feel the heat pooling around her cunt and shivering over her skin as she thinks of it.

"This way, Miss." He gestures at the private entrance to Stark's apartment, and the door opens in front of them.

He leads the way, and as she follows, the other one—the blond—falls into step beside her. "Stark told us your safeword, in case you were wondering."

That didn't cross her mind, though it probably should have. She nods, flustered in spite of herself by this new game of Stark's, and keeps walking.

Sure enough, they head straight for the door she remembers. One of the bodyguards taps a code into the panel, and the door slides open, revealing the same clean, well-lit space with its various equipment. Her eyes seek out the frame she was held on last time, and in spite of the strangers watching, she can feel a sharp stab of desire as she remembers how it felt.

"Over here, please." He gestures with a nod of his head at a contraption in the corner, and her eyes widen as she recognizes it. There's a bench, about waist-high, with various straps and buckles attached. And behind it, a sleek machine with a mechanical arm protruding. A glass-fronted cabinet to one side displays a line of dildos.

The whole thing is so absurd that she almost wants to laugh. The contraption itself is deeply ridiculous, but somehow, as the blond guy places a gentle hand on her arm and gives a little tug in its direction, her breath catches, and she can't deny her arousal.

"Mr. Stark's instructions were very specific." His tone is almost apologetic, but she can hear the steel in it, and she understands. Unless she ends the whole night with her safeword, they're going to strap her down to the contraption whether she goes willingly or not.

So she’ll go willingly. She’s seen enough porn to have a pretty clear idea what the machine's for, but she's still not sure exactly what she's supposed to do now. “Okay,” she tries to make her tone a challenge, “where does he want me?"

The bodyguards exchange a relieved look, like they hadn't expected her to go along with this. "Stark wants—“ one of them starts, but he falters, apparently embarrassed, and doesn't finish the sentence.

“I don’t think she’s the bashful type, Rhodes.” The blond gives the other guy a companionable slap on the shoulder before turning back to her. “Stark wants you on your back.” 

Okay then. They watch her, apparently hesitant to force her into position, but ready to do as they were told. They're paid for in this as much as she is, though she's got a feeling that their usual jobs are a lot more conventional. 

In any case, there's no point in acting the shy virgin here. She lifts herself up to sit on one end of the bench, facing the machine, and lies back, stretching her arms above her head in a way that she knows will display her body attractively. She cocks her head to look at them, pasting a smile on her lips that—she hopes—betrays none of her nerves. "I'm guessing that's not all he said."

The blond seems to relax. "No, ma'am." He smirks as he draws her left arm down, none too gently forcing her wrist into a cuff which seems to be attached to the underside of the table, just above her hips. He looks up over her and gestures at her right arm. The other guy mirrors him, binding her so that her fingertips can almost touch under the bench. 

They move on to her legs next, attaching leather bands to her lower thighs and drawing them back until she’s spread wide, her cunt exposed to the cool air. She shivers, not with cold, and the blond guy smiles and lets his hand trail down over the inside of her thigh. The light touch sends heat flaring through her, and she only just manages to keep her reaction from her face.

“Pretty flexible,” he notes, his thumb rubbing idly over her skin and making her whole body wish he’d close the last couple of inches and bring that pressure to her clit. “Yoga?”

“Ballet,” she corrects. The word comes out breathless in spite of herself.

He nods, apparently satisfied, and for a moment longer he just watches her, obviously enjoying himself. It finally occurs to her to wonder just how far their instructions extend. She assumed that Stark would be possessive with his toys, pissed if they did more than get her ready for his arrival. 

But maybe not. He’s taking liberties already, and he certainly doesn’t seem worried about it. Her throat goes dry, and she tries to work out whether she wants him to keep going, or to move away and leave her for Stark. He’s not unattractive, but he’s also not her client, and a part of her thinks she shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t want this, from anyone else. The strange, almost impersonal handling by these guys should have been nothing but an embarrassment, and the only heat it should have raised is anger at Stark for treating her like this. But their eyes burn into her, and she can feel hot tension growing between her thighs.

Eventually, one of them gives a nod to the other. She cranes her neck to watch, but from her position she can’t really see what they’re doing. Whatever it is makes soft sounds, plastic on metal, switches and screws. 

And then something brushes against the lips of her cunt, and she tenses, trying to gage what it is, or, more precisely, which one. She shifts her head to look at the display case, where there’s a conspicuous gap in the row of toys. She tries to remember what’s missing, whether it was an ordinary toy or something worse, but draws a blank.

Well, she’ll find out soon enough. Not immediately, though, because the thing pauses, and all she can feel is the cool press of silicon, poised at her entrance—a threat, and a promise. A little shudder runs through her, and she’s still not sure if it’s arousal or fear.

Natasha flexes against her restraints, testing to see if she can inch up the bench, away from the toy between her legs, or down, toward it. But the bodyguards apparently know what they're doing, because she can't move either way.

The blond laughs at her attempts, but the look on his face isn't cruel. He turns and gives a nod to Rhodes, who taps the little microphone at his ear. "She's ready for you, Mr. Stark."

There's a long pause, and then she hears one word in Stark's pleased, predatory tone. "Nice." His voice comes through some kind of speaker system, but she can't locate the source. It sounds like he's all around her, and somehow she feels all the more at his mercy because of it.

“Barton, start it up."

The blond—Barton, apparently—suppresses a brief look of surprise and moves to a panel on the wall. "Sure thing, Boss.”

There's a clue there, of what's going on, but she doesn't have time to consider it, because the thing between her legs starts to press forward, pushing inside of her and spreading her open. It's big—not the biggest she's felt, but distinctly wider than the toy she uses for fun.

It hurts, with a gorgeous ache that only makes her crave more. She tries to arch up against the restraints, looking to make the thing fill her just right, but remembers herself almost in time and mostly keeps still. When she casts a sidelong glance at the bodyguards, Barton is watching her openly, his eyes dark, while the other one tries, and largely fails, to keep his gaze averted.

The toy's still working its way inside her, its motion almost agonizingly slow. The whole situation is fucked up enough that she probably shouldn't be enjoying it, but the sensation is nothing but good. She can feel the attention of Stark's flunkies on her skin, a discomfort just sharp enough to shift back into pleasure. 

The machine stops only when it’s in so deep she’s sure that it can’t go any further, that it’s impossible for anything to take her more thoroughly. It pauses, then, and she can’t keep her hips still. She needs more, needs friction, needs to be fucked. She shifts the tiny distance forward and back she can manage, the toy remaining firm and motionless.

“Very, very nice,” Stark approves, his voice low and thick with lust. “Go for setting two.”

She doesn’t have time to attend to whatever the bodyguards are up to, because almost immediately the toy starts to move. Her head falls back, and she can’t keep herself from straining against the bonds, trying to open herself wider. 

The machine’s strokes are impersonal, the rhythm steadier than any flesh and blood partner. At first it’s perfect, fucking her slowly, hard and deep, but it isn’t long until she recognizes that she’ll never be satisfied by the pace. She can feel wetness trickle between her thighs, and her clit aches for any kind of touch.

But she sure as hell isn’t going to beg. Not when Stark’s nothing but a voice, coming from who knows where. 

Even so, she can’t keep her eyes from flicking to the bodyguards, or her thoughts from turning to what they’re doing there. They give no particular indication, though they’re watching openly by now, and she can see the evidence of arousal at the front of both their slacks.

A soft noise slips from Natasha’s lips, unbidden, and, over the speakers, Stark gives a theatrical little moan in answer.

“Yeah, I’m gonna wrap things up here and be there in a few.” The voice cuts off, but returns a moment later. “Nice job on the setup, guys. You know, I don’t say ‘thank you,’ enough.” From his tone it’s a joke, more or less at their expense. But when he continues, it’s with a pointed indifference that she’s pretty sure is aimed at her. “Tell you what. Natasha there has quite the mouth on her. Feel free to have a little fun while you’re waiting.”

She swallows, and feels a little shiver run through her body. Barton saunters over, a cocky little smile on his lips as he runs his hand over the side of her face. “I was really hoping he was gonna say that.” 

There's something predatory in his tone, and she shouldn't like it, shouldn't feel an answering throb in her clit when he presses a thumb against her lips. But with the toy still fucking her all too steadily and all her nerves tight with need and anticipation, she has to admit to herself at least that his casual, confident desire is turning her on. 

Still, she keeps her lips together, not quite willing to admit that she wants the invasion he's threatening. 

He shoves his thumb in anyway, past her minimal resistance, and she can feel it against her tongue before he drags it out. In spite of herself, she keeps her lips right around him and he chuckles. "Yeah, I can see why he likes you."

She waits for him to replace his thumb with his cock, but instead he turns to Rhodes. "You heard the man. You could use a little fun."

Rhodes hesitates, looking back and forth between her and his partner. "You sure you don't want to—?"

That produces a nasty smile. "Oh, I'm going to. But you should go first."

Rhodes approaches, still unsure. When he reaches her, his hand drifts to the front of his pants, but he doesn’t open them.

Barton claps him on the shoulder. "Look at her. You really think she doesn't want it?" And then he reaches out and grasps her clit between two fingers, pressing hard enough that her lips part in a gasp. His fingers disappear again, and she allows a little murmur of disappointment to slip out. He laughs, and turns to his partner. "See?" And then back to her. "You show him a good time, I might do that again."

She forces herself not to ask for it, not to admit how much she wants him to, how gladly she'd blow the both of them if they'd just let her get off too. But she does let herself look up at Rhodes, a challenge and an invitation in her eyes.

He apparently sees it, because takes his dick out, and he doesn't hesitate as he brings it to her lips and starts to push himself in.

She keeps her lips tight around him, and after his first slow thrust he groans and picks up the pace. His hand falls to the back of her head, and then it's like he's forgotten that he ever worried, because he's fucking her mouth hard, obviously chasing his own orgasm as fast as he can. His rhythm is faster than the toy between her legs, and the discordance between them is almost an annoyance. But the combination of them is good. She feels used, embarrassed that she's letting this happen, that a man she hasn't met and doesn't owe anything to is taking her mouth, and her only objection is that she isn't being fucked fast enough while he does it.

He comes quickly, with a groan and a bitter flood in her mouth. Then he stills for a moment, enjoying the aftershocks, and his thumb sweeps over her cheek in a strangely affectionate gesture.

She swallows around him—better than the alternative—and enjoys the little gasp it elicits.

"Okay, enough.” Barton gives the heavyset guy a smack on his shoulder. "My turn."

Rhodes withdraws fast, zipping himself up as if afraid that he's about to be caught out, but Natasha doesn't have time to be amused by his discomfort, because Barton’s got his dick out already, and he doesn't show the slightest hesitation when he pushes into her mouth.

"C'mon, sweetheart, you can do better than that." He shoves a little further in, but the angle's all wrong, and she really can’t take all of him, not like this. 

She makes a little noise of objection around him, but it only makes him laugh.

"This is what you're here for, isn't it? Show me why you're good enough for Stark's time."

A minute ago she would have said that she didn't give a damn about his opinion, that she certainly wouldn't work to impress him, but she's got to admit that she can feel her clit throb when he grabs the back of her head, and without really meaning to, she's got her lips hard around him, doing the best she can in the position to make this good for him. She swallows around the head of his cock with her tongue pressed hard on the underside, and the gasp he gives in response is the most honest thing she's heard from him all night.

He recovers himself quickly though. "Nice, sweetheart. Keep going and maybe you'll get a reward."

She shouldn't want it, but she does, and after all, Stark hired a whore. There's no shame in playing the part, not with what he's paying her. If he wants to pay her to service his staff, well, it's still not the worst way she's ever made a buck.

But when he starts really pumping into her mouth, she lets a little moan escape around him without even meaning to, and she has to admit at least to herself that she wants this, money or no.

So she gives it her all, sucking him even as his thrusts turn erratic, telling her he isn't far from his climax. 

“God, you love it. You’re as close as I am, aren’t you? Rhodes—give her a treat.”

She can’t turn her head to see what he’s doing, but almost immediately she feels his fingers on her clit, and it’s just right, exactly what she needs. She can hear herself moaning desperately around Barton’s cock, and the shame of it goes straight to her cunt and makes her wetter than before. She’s so close, so fucking close, and it’s so good that she can’t care about anything else. She’s just about to tip over the edge when Stark’s voice cuts through everything.

“Stop.”

The command seems to be for the machine and the guards both, because everything stops, and suddenly she’s alone on the table, her orgasm still close, but frustratingly out of reach.

“That’s a little too much fun.” Stark saunters over, his eyes moving up and down her body with a hungry look that sends a shiver over her skin. “For her,” he adds, clapping Barton on the back. “Not for you. Go ahead and finish if you want.”

Barton looks surprised, and not entirely comfortable with the idea of returning to the blow job in front of his boss.

“I gotta be honest, I was counting on you guys to muss her up a little more.” Stark runs a thumb over Natasha’s cheek and then looks up at Barton. “Dirty her up.”

It’s an order, but apparently that isn’t a problem for Barton. He brings a hand to his cock, and in spite of the interruption it only takes a few quick strokes before hot streaks of come paint her face.

Natasha flushes with a shame that’s only intensified by the way it makes her cunt ache for more.

“Yeah,” Stark approves. “That’s much better.” He lets one hand trail idly over her body, pausing to give one nipple a sharp little pinch. “Now get lost.”

Barton and Rhodes leave fast, and Natasha’s breath catches, her whole body alive in anticipation of what he’s going to do next.

“So did you like that?”

She licks her lips, reluctant to answer. But the unconscious gesture only serves to remind her of her humiliation when she tastes Barton on her tongue.

He laughs at that, but when he speaks again, his voice is sharp. “Answer me.”

She swallows. “Yes Sir.”

“Good girl. I like honesty in a whore.” He leans over a panel on the machine and quickly taps out a command. The cuffs release, and she can’t quite hide her disappointment. “Fuck,” Stark curses under his breath. “You are— you are quite the find. Hands and knees.”

She moves to slide down, but he stops her. “On the table.”

Okay. She does as ordered, and feels a little of her own wetness trickle down one thigh.

He strolls around her, and at first she tries to follow him with her eyes, but he grabs her chin and forces it down. “Eyes down. If I wanted an audience I’d get Barton and Rhodey back in here.”

She flushes hot again, far more humiliated by the dismissal than by the position. But even that embarrassment pales when she feels his hands on her ass, pulling her cheeks apart.

“You’ve really never done anything with this cute little asshole of yours, huh?”

The question sounds rhetorical, so she bites her lip and keeps her eyes down.

He gives her a solid smack—enough to really sting, though less than she might have liked. “If I need to tell you one more time to answer me when I ask a question, you’re not going to like your punishment.”

She debates provoking him, but decides he’s probably telling the truth. “No, Sir, I haven’t.” The idea has never really appealed, but she can’t deny that now, tonight, the threat of it goes straight to her clit.

“Good.” His voice is thick with lust, and dangerously possessive.

She barely has a chance to register it before she feels something slick and cold. It hurts going in, but after a second it’s just there—a fullness she’s never felt before. It doesn’t do a lot for her, but it isn’t bad.

He chuckles softly. “Don’t worry. The plug’s small. Wouldn’t want to take away from the main event.”

He moves away from her, and it’s an effort to keep her eyes on the table below her and his footsteps take him across the room, and back. Then there’s silence, and she can hardly hold herself still, waiting to see what he wants next.

The pain, when it comes, takes her breath away. Partly it’s the surprise, and partly the strength of the sharp blows on her ass, stinging in quick succession. Her skin heats, and after the first few blows he settles into a slower rhythm, allowing her to notice how she tenses with each strike, making the plug feel bigger, _more_ than it is. It’s good—it’s so fucking good, and her clit aches with it. Whatever he’s using—a strap, she thinks, but she can’t say for sure—suddenly bites deep against one thigh, so close to the lips of her cunt that she can’t hold back a whimper.

The blows stop and she feels his hand in her hair, yanking her head back. He leans over her until his lips brush her ear. “You are made for this. You are made to be hurt.” 

She feels the words as a wave of heat, and the whimper turns into a full out moan.

Stark groans in answer, and she hears something fall to the ground. “And to be fucked,” he adds, before shoving her head down against the table, leaving her ass high in the air.

Her breath catches as she waits for him to take her, not sure whether she’s hoping he’ll fuck her cunt or her ass.

But apparently it’s her mouth he wants, because he moves to the other side of the table and pulls out his cock. She doesn’t even try to hide her disappointment. He tsks a little, even as he pulls her head down onto him. “Not that I don’t appreciate the enthusiasm, but keep in mind you’re here for me.”

She knows that. So she sucks him in, sliding her tongue against the underside of his cock. The angle isn’t great, but she wants to make it good for him—wants to please him in a way that’s somehow beyond their deal, beyond the money. Beyond even her pride.

But she doesn’t really get the chance, because he tugs her back by her hair almost before she’s begun. “Sweetheart, if I wanted a blow job I’d let you know.” And then he’s thrusting up into her mouth, all aggression and sharp strokes, fucking her throat until she can hardly breathe. Her eyes water, and she can feel tears running down the mess on her face. She barely feels the plug—all she’s aware of is his cock in her and his fist tight in her hair.

It’s over fast, his semen pulsing in her throat, and then in weaker spurts in her mouth and on her lips as he withdraws. He releases her and takes a step back, breathing heavily and cursing under his breath. “Yeah. I am never getting tired of that.” He recovers himself fast, and soon he’s zipping up his pants again, watching her with an almost dispassionate expression. He lets his hand trail over her back and ass, and fiddles with the plug. “OK, well, I've got a couple of things to take care of, but I’ll give you a little something to do while you wait.”

He grabs her by the thighs and yanks, pulling her legs off the table and to the ground. Almost before she can react, he’s got her hands tied again, and her thighs strapped tight against the table’s end. He gives her ass a smack and moves away for another moment, and then she feels it again—the blunt end of the dildo gently pressed against the lips of her cunt. She lets a little moan escape from her throat, desperate for it, for anything, and too far gone to keep up any pretense of dignity.

But apparently that isn’t enough for him. “You want this?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t seem impressed by the answer, and it occurs to her that a little formality might be what he’s looking for. “Yes, Sir.”

“Better. But you’re going to have to work for it.” He moves back within her view, an almost comically large dildo in his hands. He pulls some mechanism out of the front of the table and a minute later the thing's pressed against her lips.

"I think you know what to do."

She swallows, licks her lips, and then opens them, letting the thing into her mouth.

"You can do better than that. Show me what you've got."

It's almost too much. She can picture herself in her minds' eye, willingly blowing a piece of plastic for Stark's amusement, and for the first time in the evening, the humiliation of it almost overrides her desire. It's more for the money than for any other reason that she sucks at the thing's head, drawing it into her and trying to pretend it's real. But as she does it, the one between her legs nudges forward, filling her just where she needs it, and arousal gets the upper hand again. She tries a little harder, leaning as far forward as her bonds allow to suck it in, and she's rewarded with a shallow thrusting.

"You get the picture.”

In her mind’s eye, she can see how ridiculous she must look, how desperate, but by now even that image is only fuel on the fire of her arousal. She lets her eyes close and sucks the plastic cock in earnest. Sure enough, the one in her cunt starts to really fuck her, almost the way she needs. Everything else falls away as she chases her orgasm. It’s so close, no matter how long she keeps at it, it always feels like a few more strokes could tip her over the edge. But with nothing but air against her clit, it’s never quite enough. She groans in frustration, still too desperate to stop in spite of the futility of it.

Stark laughs, and she does pause then to look at him. He’s lounging on a couch a few feet away, idly rubbing at his cock through the fabric of his pants.

Natasha pulls off the cock at her lips, regretting that the dildo leaves her cunt as she does. “Please.”

He gets to his feet, casually, in no hurry. “Please what?”

“I need—“

He laughs again. “Honey, I know what you need.” He flicks her clit with one finger, and it’s so close to enough that she gasps, and then whimpers with disappointment. “Gotta say, it’s one of my favorite things about you—makes it damn easy to keep you desperate. One of these days I’m going to keep you here or a week, fuck you twice day, never let you come the whole time.”

She groans at the idea.

“See, you can’t possibly need the money that badly, not after what I’m paying you tonight. But you'd do it anyway, wouldn’t you.”

“Yes,” she admits.

“Yeah, this is a match made in, well, definitely not heaven. I think I'm gonna throw a party—share you around.”

A little sound of need passes her lips, and she tries to press her thighs together, as if it might give her anything like the relief she needs. 

“Tell you what, you’ve been exceptionally entertaining tonight, so I'll give you a choice. You can have the five hundred bucks I was going to give you for a tip, or you can have this.” He holds out a small silver object, and at first she thinks it's a nipple clamp. But he gestures between her legs and she flushes with need as she realizes where it's meant to go. “It vibrates,” Stark adds. 

“That.” She’ll regret this tomorrow, but tonight she can't help herself. 

He chuckles. “You are a terrible whore, but a great piece of ass.” He tosses the little toy up, catches it, and slides it back in his pocket. 

Natasha manages to keep her reaction to an indignant cough instead of a whine. 

He laughs again. “I said I'd give it to you. Didn't say when.” He gives her a little slap, only just enough to sting, and her breath catches again.

Suddenly, with a rough burst of pain, the plug is gone from her ass. A heartbeat later she hears the zip of his fly.

"I want you to know, anal doesn't have to hurt. Done carefully, it's very pleasurable for both partners." The words themselves are reassuring, but his tone isn't, and she can almost hear his nasty smirk as he continues. "I want you to know that so you understand that I'm making a choice here." And then he presses into her, hard and fast, and fuck, fuckfuckfuck it hurts. It's like she's being torn open, and in spite of her arousal there's no pleasure to it. "'Cause this? This is for me." And then he's fucking her in earnest, his hands tight on her hips as he thrusts. 

She lets the pain show in her voice, whimpers and gasps spilling over her lips.

"Yeah," he murmurs, "that's it. Take it."

And she does, as the strokes keep coming. Somehow the sharp pain of it starts to—not subside, because he's giving no quarter and she still hurts with every thrust, but that pain, and the thick appreciation in his voice, and the ache in her clit combine to build a hot ball of need in her gut, and it isn't long before her moans aren't about the pain at all. None of it is enough, none of it is quite what she needs, and she tries in spite of herself to free one hand to bring it down between her legs to let her get her own in. She can't—of course she can't—and she's left with nothing to do but beg. So beg she does. "Please. Please." It comes into a rhythm, drawn from her lips with every thrust. "Pleasepleasepleaseplease."

He stops suddenly, buried deep within her, and leans over to speak into her ear. "Well, since you asked so nicely.”

And then she feels it, sharp pleasure closing around her clit. Pleasure rips through her, coming in waves that wash her away and leave her shaking. By the time she begins to recover herself, he’s pulling out, cursing through his own release. She barely notices, still caught up in the rawness of all her nerves, the aftershocks that pull her out of herself every other heartbeat, then every fourth, then finally with enough space between them that she can attend to her surroundings.

By the time that happens, he’s recovered, and manages to look almost indifferent as she pulls herself to her feet.

She reaches for the vibrator, still buzzing away at her clit, but Stark swats her hand away. “Leave it. Barton’s gonna give you a lift home, and you’re going to keep that on until you get there.”

Another aftershock pulses through her—whether provoked by his words or not she can’t say. She tries to find it in herself to tell him no, but the idea isn’t entirely disagreeable, and anyway, he’s the client. “Yes, Sir,” she murmurs. 

“Goddamn,” he says quietly. He takes her hand and places a wad of cash in her palm before she can even react.

Her hand closes around the money just in time to keep it from falling from her fingers. “You said—”

He laughs. “Yeah, I was just fucking with you. You really are a terrible whore.” He leans over and flicks the vibrator with one finger. She gasps, one final surge of pleasure pulsing through her already fried nerves. “But I am not complaining.”


End file.
